


Pulling a Pike

by Caseyrocksmore



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baddie of the Week, Case Fic, Fluff, Gen, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Pre-Reichenbach, Star Trek (2009) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caseyrocksmore/pseuds/Caseyrocksmore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is tied to a table. When Sherlock comes to save him, he is forced to "Pull a Captain Pike." Prompt fill. Fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulling a Pike

**Author's Note:**

> Written 18/02/12. Reposted from LiveJournal.  
> Prompt fill: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=5960871#t5960871

The table beneath John’s back is hard and smooth, and the coldness of the metal seeps through his jumper and makes his injured shoulder tense up. He feels like there should be some sort of villain looming over him, perhaps explaining an evil plot to lure Sherlock into this dank, disgusting place in order to rescue the damsel in distress ( _Too late_ , John thinks with amusement,  _That’s been done already_ ), or maybe just laugh maniacally.

The hours tick by without a single human interaction, and John’s head gets clearer and clearer. He surmises that the restraints holding down his wrists and ankles are too tight to get out of without breaking some bones, and the one around his waist too tight to move around under. He spends a great deal of time contemplating whether it would be pertinent to break his hand; he hates feeling like he’s waiting for his flatmate to save him (he’s not a damsel in distress, dammit).

He’s about to try it, too, when he hears two gunshots and the hurried stomp of feet that could only belong to Sherlock Holmes. The man may look light on his feet, but John knows that he sounds like an elephant tromping up stairs at the best of times.

John sighs as the world’s only consulting detective bursts through a door looking like an action hero on crack— all manic smile and wild eyes and messed up curls and whirling trench coat. Sherlock seems almost disappointed that they’ve left John unguarded.

“Took you long enough,” John says, turning his head to glare at Sherlock as best as he can in his position. “How long did it take you to notice I was gone this time?”

Sherlock clicks his tongue and stuffs a gun (John’s gun) into the waistband of his trousers. “The kidnappers called and asked for a ransom. Idiots.”

It skirts around the question in an almost embarrassed way. Sherlock hadn’t noticed John was missing. The kidnappers had to _inform_  him. How wonderful.

Sherlock’s hands are on his restraints an instant later. “Are you injured?” he asks briskly, nimble fingers making short work of the heavy metal clasps securing his closest wrist.

“No. Drugged, but it’s mostly worn off by now. Mild sedative, delivered by a hypodermic to the carotid.” John groans as his wrist is finally released, flexing his fingers experimentally. “You?”

“I am uninjured as well.” Sherlock leans across John’s prone body, fumbling with the clasps on his far wrist. There’s a sound from the hallway— faint, but it’s enough. John’s instincts as a soldier kick in before Sherlock even registers the gentle scuff of a shoe against concrete.

John only has one free hand, but he makes do. He grabs the gun from Sherlock’s belt and fires the second he sees movement. The body outside the doorway drops with a dull  _thud_ , even as Sherlock stiffens like he’s about to react.

“Got ’im,” John says breathlessly, still holding the gun parallel to the floor under Sherlock’s outstretched arm. There’s a click, and then his other wrist is free.

“Nice shot,” Sherlock comments as he finishes wrestling with the leather strap across John’s midsection. John thinks he might actually sound impressed for once, and smiles when he is finally able to sit up. He stretches for the first time in hours, despite his shoulder’s protests, as Sherlock quickly opens the much simpler manacles on his ankles. “Are you able to walk?”

They step over the still-warm body of the guard in the hallway (the tiny hole between his eyes has frozen a look of shock on his face) and walk out of the building unhampered. John wonders what the purpose of this exercise was, but puts it out of his mind as a police car pulls up out front just as they exit.

“I told you to wait for me!” is Lestrade’s less-than-happy response to seeing them, but his gaze softens when it lands on John. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“He’s fine,” Sherlock informs the Detective Inspector for him, nevertheless ushering John forwards with a hand on his back. “But he would like to go home now. He can answer any of your questions tomorrow at Scotland Yard.”

“I can answer for myself you know,” John grumbles as Sherlock plucks the gun from his hands and offers it to Lestrade.

“You often make pleasantries and draw out conversations needlessly. You are cold and sore, and need bed rest and a cup of tea.” Sherlock turns to Lestrade, who gingerly takes the gun from the impatient consulting detective. “There are two bodies in the warehouse, both killed with this. Mine is the unfortunately less effective kill, shot twice in the chest. John’s is the headshot.”

“I pulled a Captain Pike. Tied to a table and all that. It was brilliant. You’d be impressed.” Sherlock is tapping his foot and watching Lestrade’s excited expression with what can only be called dread.

“How on earth did you manage a headshot pulling a Pike?”

“I need to get John home,” Sherlock interrupts before John can describe the exact conditions of the shot. He can only image what kind of time that would waste, when he’d only have to tell the story again in the morning for an official report.

“Sherlock, you can’t expect me to let you run off—” Lestrade begins, though he already looks resigned to the fact that he  _will_.

“John is in shock. Allow me to take him home and care for him.” Sherlock’s jaw is set in that hard line that means he’s made up his mind. John rubs a hand over his face. He isn’t in shock, but a soft bed, some warm blankets and a cup of hot tea sounds heavenly.

“We’ll be in at nine tomorrow to give a statement. Promise,” John says to Lestrade, who nods once before jerking his head towards his car.

“I suppose I’m driving?” he asks, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“I paid a cab to wait for us up the street. Until tomorrow,” he says, steering John away before he can mutter any sort of goodbye of his own. He’s actually quite thankful for that; now that the adrenaline is wearing off, the soreness and fatigue is catching up with him.

In the end, Sherlock makes him make his own tea, but it’s worth it to curl up on his chair in front of the television and fall asleep watching a muted rerun of Wheel of Fortune.

“I’m sure your Captain would have approved of that shot. It was really quite remarkable, under the circumstances,” Sherlock’s voice cuts through the fog of John’s mind right before he falls asleep.

“My Captain?” John asks sleepily, his eyes already closed as he burrows down further under his blanket.

“Captain Pike, you said. He taught you that strategy.”

Even as tired as he was, John couldn’t help but laugh. “Sure, Sherlock. My Captain would’ve been very proud of me.”

Sherlock makes that noise that John has taken to mean “Of course,” and then starts to pick out a tuneless melody on his violin.

“And after we get back from Scotland Yard tomorrow, we’re watching  _Star Trek_.”

John is already asleep by the time Sherlock decides to demand why.


End file.
